Chapter Text
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The studio lights burned hot overhead, glaring white against polished equipment and empty backdrops. Cheng Xiaoshi leaned against a stool with his arms folded, a restless energy in every twitch of his foot. His phone buzzed for the third time in as many minutes, and he shot it an annoyed look before turning his attention back to the small circle of assistants fidgeting at the far end of the set.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, mostly to himself but loud enough for anyone close by to hear. “I’m not the one who bailed at the last second.”
The problem wasn’t him, for once. Their contracted photographer: a pretentious alpha with too much attitude and too little patience… had stormed off after a scheduling dispute. That left a half-completed campaign, a looming deadline, and one very irritated model stranded under the studio lights with nothing to show for it.
From the corner of the room, Qiao Ling emerged with her phone glued to her ear and a stack of folders under one arm. Her heels clicked against the polished floor as she crossed over to Xiaoshi. Manager, childhood friend, eternal babysitter… Qiao Ling had perfected the art of juggling professional grace with the patience of a saint.
Her tone was clipped as she ended the call. “He’s not coming back. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever if his ego has anything to say about it.”
Xiaoshi spread his hands dramatically. “Great. Just great. What are we supposed to do… snap selfies and hope the company buys it?”
“Don’t tempt me.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaling slowly. “I’m already running through replacements. There’s a few names being thrown around, but…most of them are booked solid.”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. His alpha presence usually filled a room without effort, but now his charm had nowhere to land, bouncing uselessly against the walls of the empty studio.
“Look, Lingling, I can’t exactly strike poses in front of a blank wall and call it art. You know how these campaigns are… they want everything polished, curated. We’re dead without a photographer.”
Qiao Ling’s phone buzzed again. She glanced at the screen, then tapped something quickly before looking up at him with a mix of resignation and reluctant hope.
“I might know someone.”
Xiaoshi straightened. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Who?”
“A professor.”
He blinked. “…You mean like…a university professor?”
“Photography professor. Teaches at that famous studio arts university. His name’s Lu Guang.”
“Never heard of him.”
“That’s because he doesn’t usually take commercial work. He’s more on the academic and fine-art side. But his portfolio’s…incredible. A few galleries, some smaller exhibitions. He’s respected.”
The raven-head arched a brow. “Then why would he waste his time on a campaign shoot?”
“Because I’m desperate enough to call in a favor,” she replied flatly, tucking her phone away. “We crossed paths a few times at conferences a few years in a row. He’s not flashy, but he’s talented. The kind of talented that could save our asses.”
Xiaoshi grinned, intrigued now. “Alright, I’m listening. What’s the catch?”
“The catch is that he is a beta who doesn’t like working with people like you.”
“People like me?”
“Loud, unpredictable alphas with too much energy and too little filter.” She gave him a look that was equal parts fond and exasperated. “Which means, if he agrees, you need to be on your best behavior. Professional. Respectful.”
He clutched his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Lingling. I’m always professional.”
Her silence said everything.
⸻
That evening, the air around the university’s photography building carried a different weight than the bright sterility of the studio. The halls were quieter, the lighting warmer, walls lined with framed student works and faculty showcases.
Xiaoshi shoved his hands into his pockets as they walked, his stride loose, casual. “So this guy’s a professor, huh? How old are we talking? White beard, glasses, tweed jacket?”
“You’ll see.” Qiao Ling’s heels clicked against the linoleum as she led him toward the photography labs. “And remember what I said… be polite.”
They stopped outside a door half-shut, light spilling from within. Inside, the faint smell of developer chemicals hung in the air, mingling with the subtle tang of coffee.
She knocked lightly before pushing the door open.
“Professor Lu?”
The man inside looked up from where he was clipping some images up to dry.
Lu Guang wasn’t what Xiaoshi expected. No gray beard, no tweed jacket. He was lean, sharp-featured, his hair a smooth fall of white tucked neatly behind one ear. He wore simple, professional clothes: shirt sleeves rolled just enough to reveal pale wrists inked faintly with a watch tan. His expression was unreadable, eyes the color of steal grey framed by long lashes. To put it simply, he was a gorgeous man.
“Ms. Qiao Ling,” he greeted, his voice low, even. “I assume this isn’t a social visit.”
“Unfortunately not.” She smiled, stepping in with practiced ease. “I have a project in urgent need of a photographer. Our original one quit, and we’re on a tight deadline. I was hoping you might consider stepping in.”
His gaze flicked toward Xiaoshi, who leaned casually against the doorframe, offering a bright grin and a little wave.
“This is Cheng Xiaoshi,” she introduced. “He’s the model for the campaign.”
For a beat, silence stretched.
Lu Guang’s eyes lingered on the man just long enough to make him shift under the weight of that gaze: not hostile, not warm, simply…measured. Then he looked back to the woman.
“I don’t take commercial work.”
“I know.” Qiao Ling’s tone softened, diplomatic. “But this is an emergency. Just one campaign. We’re willing to work with your schedule, your rates. We only need someone reliable enough to finish the shoot.”
Xiaoshi, never one to stay quiet for long, piped up. “Hey, don’t dismiss it so fast. You don’t even know if I’m photogenic yet.”
His manager shot him a sharp look, but Lu Guang merely blinked.
“I know enough,” he said. His voice carried no arrogance, just certainty. “The industry has enough polished faces. What it lacks is sincerity. That’s not something you capture easily in a campaign shoot.”
The raven-head tilted his head, intrigued instead of insulted. “So you think I’m just another Alpha face-for-hire?”
“Am I wrong?”
For the first time all day, Xiaoshi didn’t have an immediate comeback. Something in Lu Guang’s tone: not cruel, not dismissive, just factual… cut straight through his usual bravado.
Qiao Ling stepped in quickly. “Professor Lu, I wouldn’t have come to you if I didn’t believe you could make this work. Please. Just one shoot. If you still hate it after, we won’t bother you again.”
Another long silence. Lu Guang’s gaze flicked between them… the tired determination in the woman’s face, the restless spark in the alpha’s. Finally, with the faintest sigh, he moved and adjusted his camera lens on the tripod at the corner of the room and straightened.
“One shoot,” he said simply.
Xiaoshi’s grin spread wide. “Knew you’d come around, Professor.”
The other man didn’t rise to the bait. His expression didn’t shift. But as he looked at him again… just a glance, brief and unreadable… something unreadable flickered in his eyes, gone before the raven-head could name it.
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